Page 14

In the pitch dark of night, a crescent moon is our only light. Astor Manor looms before us, cloaked in shadow. A most tantalizing temptation indeed.

“Kat, everything set? You remember the floorplan?” Paul asks.

“Yes, I’m ready.” I bounce on my toes.

“Time check.” He thrusts his tarnished gold pocket watch into the center of our circle. Abe, Tony, and I follow suit with our own timepieces, synchronizing down to the second. Tony, facetious as always, wears a watch on each arm.

When Paul is satisfied, he nods. “All right, it’s 10:14 p.m. now. In sixty seconds, Tony and I will move on the carriage house.”

“Stay safe,” I murmur.

Paul nods again, his eyes never leaving his watch.

“Three, two, one…get a wiggle on!”

We divide into two groups, moving in opposite directions through the shadows of Astor Manor’s neo-Roman garden.

Paul and Tony head east to the carriage house, disappearing behind a curtain of Spanish moss.

Abe and I, both clad in our trademark black, slink around a corner to huddle against the manor’s west wall, hearts pounding.

We chose the western perimeter as my takeoff point for one specific reason—the three-story stone fireplace flue.

The exterior of the mansion is made of polished marble bricks, too expensively smooth for even my adroit feet to find purchase.

But the home’s multiple fireplace flues are made of deep-cut, angular stones.

Several of the chimneys jut out solely at the rooftop level, but this one very conveniently runs up the entirety of the manor’s exterior, ground to roof.

Abe glides, phantomlike, across the west lawn.

When we reach the stone chimney, he locks his fingers together to give me a boost. Unnecessary but kind.

As I establish my grip, I wonder if our quarry—that beautiful gold ballerina—is perhaps just on the other side of the stone walls beneath my fingers.

My mouth drips with molten honey, tasting her nearness.

As Abe melts back into the cover of darkness, I scamper upward.

It’s a very slim flue, but toeholds are easy to find in the grooves between rough-hewn stones.

I’m a vertical trapeze artist—stretching, pulling, flying.

I reach the roof in about sixty seconds.

The breeze lifts the end of my ponytail as I peer at the carriage house.

A ground-level light is on near the guards’ quarters, but I can’t see inside.

I have no way of knowing if the three watchmen are still locked, safe and snug, in their office, bartering responsibilities for patrols with throws of their dice.

No way of knowing if Paul and Tony have moved to disable them.

No way of knowing if an alarm has been sounded.

Anxious, I glance at my watch. It’s 10:18, the precise minute Paul planned to breach. I exhale slowly, blowing down my concern.

I have to trust him— them —to get their job done. Same as they’re trusting me to do mine.

I creep along the roof’s edge, keeping as close to the gutter as I can to avoid slipping on sloped tile. I’m a tightrope walker now, arms out and legs steady as I traverse all the way to the eastern perimeter of the house. The side where the scullery and delivery truck are.

There’s another chimney over here, this time a double-wide flue for the main kitchen.

After another quick glimpse at my watch, I cup my gloved hands around my lips and let out a melodic bird whistle, designed to mimic the three-part coo of Savannah’s ever-present mourning doves.

This is Abe’s ten-minute warning. The only one I’ll give before disappearing into the belly of the beast.

Arms trembling with adrenaline, I haul myself atop the flue. Before I start my descent, I pause for a steadying breath.

Chimneys are death traps. There are a dozen different ways to get stuck inside.

They’ve been the downfall of hundreds of thieves throughout history.

But I’m no ordinary thief. And the flue of this chimney is bigger than most because it ends at the massive hearth of the ground floor kitchen. It’s nearly two feet all around.

Slowly, slowly, slowly I lower myself. I keep my body straight and tall, flexing my feet, locking in stability with my toes on the wall.

My core is tight as a spring. The real work, however, falls to my arms. I bend them at a ninety-degree angle so my hands are near my ears.

I press my gloved palms against the wall, ensuring I won’t slip.

Then, little by little, like an inchworm, I begin to descend.

It’s excruciating work. I’m panting at the halfway point; I’m sooty and sweaty near the bottom. The interior stones of the flue radiate heat at me, every breath tinged with woodsmoke. And all the while, my watch ticks away beside my ear, clocking every second like the pound of a funeral drum.

When the concrete base of the hearth is in sight, my body nearly spasms with relief. At this height, I could safely drop and relieve the terrible ache in my shoulders and arms, but I pause, listening closely. I need to be sure.

I grin when I hear it, the sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses.

At first, we couldn’t figure out why the delivery truck loitered outside the manor on Thursday evenings. Two weeks ago, Tony “borrowed” a uniform from one of the delivery men and slipped aboard the truck in his stead. That’s when we learned about the gambling.

On Thursdays, after all the food is unloaded, the delivery workers and kitchen staff run a weekly card game in the servants’ hall. Chores stay largely unfinished until morning, limiting after-hours foot traffic through the kitchen and manor.

Satisfied with the recon, I take a deep breath and let go.

I land in a crouch on the balls of my feet and pull a cloth from my pocket to wipe soot from my gloves and shoes.

Then I crawl out of the fireplace and around the corner, scampering like a rat.

I check my watch again. Sixty-seven seconds until I’m due to meet Abe.

The house is silent and dark as I sneak to the back terrace. When I arrive, I unlock multiple deadbolts on the glass-paneled garden door.

“Long time no see, Kitty-Kat.” Smirking, Abe slides out from behind a column and strides into the manor.

“Abe.” I quickly turn all three locks on the door. Just as you were. “Any news on Paul and Tony?”

“About three minutes ago, they flicked the carriage house lights in the five-beat signal we practiced.”

I sigh with relief, lowering my eyes. As Abe checks his timepiece, my nimble, sticky fingers drift idly to a nearby table. It houses a set of tiny crystal animals. A glass menagerie. The collection must have cost a fortune.

I whistle, plucking an animal from the outer ring. “Look, Abe. Is this what I think it is?” I hold the glass wolf up.

“Ironic.” He chuckles.

“It’s beautiful.” I put the wolf down. “Ready to divide and conquer?”

“Meet you at the stairwell in five.”

We depart to hunt down the fireplaces scattered throughout the home, splitting up to check the first four; Abe takes the bottom floor while I take the middle.

My heart roars in my ears, my breath swelling like a tornado in my chest as I prowl up the stairs.

I slip into an interior sitting room featuring a beautiful marble fireplace.

The lighting is dim, so I cross the room to check the mantel, sweeping my hand across the cool marble.

No dancer .

My second target is a few paces down the hall.

This mantel is made of intricately carved mahogany.

A lethal pair of crossed swords is mounted above, and two portraits of eighteenth-century gentlemen in full finery and wigs hang astride.

Like sentinels, their eyes seem to follow my every step as I approach, then bore into my back as I depart, empty-handed and breathless, moments later. I shiver as I click the door shut.

Hoping Abe had better luck, I tiptoe toward our rendezvous point at the main stairwell.

Every creak and groan of the house sends a dizzying wave of anxiety across my vision.

I freeze before rounding the final corner, hearing a dangerous whisper of footsteps.

I stuff a fist over my mouth to muffle my ragged breath, leaning my head around for a peek.

Abe.

I exhale in a whoosh and reveal myself. Abe eyes my empty hands, then shakes his head. His search, like mine, turned up nothing.

I raise my eyes to the swirling staircase, apprehensive. Looks like we’re headed for the third floor, the private living quarters. Abe points upward, silently asking if I’m ready.

We’re a well-oiled machine. Abe and I slink up the stairs and down the hall in perfect tandem. The plush carpeting muffles any hint of footfalls as we head to our first checkpoint, Harry’s office. The door is locked, but that won’t keep us out.

On bended knee, Abe slips a slender flathead from his waistline and jimmies the door. A few soft clicks later, we’re in. I close the heavy door behind us while Abe heads for the fireplace.

“Dammit,” he mutters, turning to me.

Five fireplaces searched, five empty. The ballerina is either safely ensconced in the master bedroom or it’s nowhere to be found, and the entire job will have been for naught.

“We’re going to have to wait it out, Kat. Like we talked about,” Abe says.

“What time is it? ”

“Eleven fifteen.”

“We need to hide for almost two hours ?”

“Yes. There’s a linen closet right outside the master,” Abe reminds me. “That’s Plan B.”

“Can’t we just stay here?” I offer weakly. “The door is locked. The staff probably won’t come in here to clean…”

Abe shakes his head. “That’s not the plan, Kat. This room is a hot zone. If Harry returns, this is the first place he’ll come. We have no extraction plan.”

“He’s not coming home.”

“Plan B, Kat.” Abe stonewalls me. “We don’t go rogue mid-mission, we always follow the plan. We wait directly outside the master bedroom, and when the time is right, we make our move.”